The Mercenary
by DemonCrowley
Summary: After a spectacularly long hunt, Sam and Cas dissapear. A certain JM has taken them hostage. But money is not the things he desires... Rated T for language/
1. The Dissapearance

**New story! It's not gonna be very long, but not very short either. Basically, it's too long to be a short story, and too short to be a real long fanfic. Anyway, the SPN storyline is not very important, but Cas is human and it's saving people hunting things, until...**

**Chapter 1**

It had been a freakishly long week. He, Sam and Cas had been hunting down a nest of Vampires that turned out to be _two_ nests and… well, Dean didn't want to think about it anymore. He dumped his bag full of guns in a corner and fell down, face forward on the king.

He noticed that, even though he had been wide awake in the car, he was starting to grow tired, really tired. It smelled musty, they should've aired the room…

Dean wasn't even able to move his limbs or kick his shoes off anymore, he just, slumped in, crashed onto that bed and fell asleep.

The next morning came way too soon for Dean. He rolled out of the bed, rubbing his temples. The shower was running, so that was probably Sam. He looked around him, but he noticed that both his brother and the ex-Angel were gone.

He got up and walked over to the fridge to grab a beer. There was a note on his six-pack.

_Out to get breakfast. Back in thirty._

Dean chuckled, with Cas in the shower and Sam out to get breakfast, he had some alone time. He sunk down on the couch and turned on the TV to maybe catch the last fifteen minutes of Dr. Sexy MD.

"_...bodies have been found in Dickinson. The heads of the two victims are still missing. The police has no leads on a possible suspect. On with the weather, Paul, I heard..._"

Dean sighed annoyed, changing channels when he recognized the barn from last night. He _knew_ he had counted sixteen body's and eighteen heads in that pit, but Sam was so sure he had them all...

"We missed two body's!" he shouted to Cas.

No reply. Weird. Cas usually immediately reacted to anything he said.

"Whatever." Dean shrugged, as he zapped through the channels to look for his show. News. News. News. Cartoons. Documentary. He rubbed his face. "Day time TV sucks." He mumbled to himself.

So he just watched the news and waited for Cas to come out of the goddamn shower so he could wash the dried blood out of his hair and take a look at the gash in his arm that was dried stuck to his shirt. He couldn't remember why he didn't take care of that yesterday. He couldn't even remember much from what happened when they got back to the motel. There was the nest, the fire, the bickering about the amount of heads and bodies, the ride back and… black, darkness, nothing.

Dean shrugged. Maybe he'd drunk too much, he remembered drinking a lot of whiskey too, so maybe the combination of beer and whiskey hadn't been too good for him. Dean didn't remember being drunk though, and the last time he had blackouts from drinking was, well, probably somewhere between Hell and the Apocalypse.

After ten minutes of waiting for Cas to come out, he got annoyed. After twenty he was banging on the door. "C'mon Cas! You got to be done by now!"

He rattled the handle, but it gave in to his push. The door wasn't locked.

Carefully, he stuck his head in the door. "Cas?"

Still, no reply.

_Okay that's it,_ Dean threw the door open and barged in. "Since when are you ignoring me?" He said grumpy, pulling the shower curtain back.

He expected to see a shocked Cas and a struggle for the shower curtain.

What he didn't expect was an empty shower stall. The shower was running and there was a letter hanging on the head. It was sealed in one of those keeps-your-food-fresh-in-the-freezer-bags and Dean yanked it off it rope, walking back to the couch and opening the envelope.

It had his name on it, written with some goddamn fancy fountain pen.

_Dean Winchester_, it said.

First and last name, it scared him. Only a handful of people knew his _real_ first name and the people who knew his real last name were Sam, Cas or dead.

With shaky hands, he tore the envelope open and pulled the letter out.

_Dear Dean Winchester,_

In that same _goddamn_ fountain pen.

_You must have noticed by now that your brother and friend are gone. Congratulations! So- If you want to talk about getting your friends back, meet me at the Green Hill cemetery in Laramie, Wyoming at midnight._

_With love,  
>JM<em>

Dean crumbled the paper up and threw it in a corner.

He did a quick calculation, it was about 508 miles to Laramie from here, and if he left now he would avoid the evening rush and arrive there about nine pm.

He scrambled to his feet and reached for his jacket, when he felt a jab of pain shoot up his arm.

"God fucking damn it," he swore. He would have to take care of that first before it would infect and kill him. He was not good to anyone dead.

He quickly kicked his shoes and pants off and turned the shower on again, soaking the fabric of his plaid shirt with lukewarm water.

Impatient, he pulled it loose, with the result that it started bleeding again. He threw his shirt in a corner, rubbed the wound clean with some whiskey and dry with some cloth and sewed it up as quick as he could.

Right now he was really glad he didn't take the time to clean his weapons, like he usually did, but had dumped them in a corner.

Dean quickly pulled on a new t-shirt and plaid, grabbed the remainder of beer from the fridge, his jacket from the couch and his duffle bag full of shotguns and salt rounds from the corner.

He walked to the Impala and frowned. It was weird to drive the car alone. Even though he did it often enough, it was always knowing that he could pick up Sam and Cas whenever he wanted.

He started the engine with a soft, familiar rumble when he suddenly remembered something. He marched back into the motel room and grabbed Sam's laptop off the tabletop. The rest of their stuff was already in the car, but Dean knew Sam would kill him if he forgot the thing.

Driving through the back roads of America he wondered how on Earth someone managed to bypass him, get to Sam and Cas and leave without any of them waking up and fighting.

It could've been drugs, but they didn't eat after they returned and he didn't remember feeling dizzy or sleepy before he went to bed.

He was tired, yes, but that was a whole different story.

He wondered about it the entire way to Laramie, when he suddenly saw police lights flashing.

"Son of a bitch," Dean sighed. He stopped the Impala on the side of the road and rolled down his window, his ivory plated colt cocked under his seat.

"Good afternoon sir," A tall police officer hung down on his window frame. "Do you realize you've been speeding for the past five miles?"

Dean sighed. "I'm sorry officer, stressed day at work."

The officer nodded, scribbling in his notebook. "At work? And where is that?"

Dean chuckled nervous. "I fix cars, sir."

"Cars?" The police officer nodded. "You look more like a Hunter to me."

The police officer looked up and his eyes flashed black. Dean pulled his gun out from under his seat and shot the officer twice, to make him stumble backwards. Then he threw the passenger seat door of the Impala open, against the other officer and rolled out of the car, pulling Ruby's knife.

Funny, that after Ruby had been dead for almost five years, it was still Ruby's knife.

"I don't have time for this," He growled. "What the Hell are you doing here?"

"We caught air of you, Winchester." The first officer-Demon smiled. "There is a bill that needs to be paid."

He lunged forward and so did Dean. He dodged the Demons arm and stuck the knife up his throat. He felt the other Demon coming closer, so he pulled the knife back, ducked, turned around and wanted to slash the Demons throat.

But he slashed his arm. The Demon gasped in pain and didn't pay attention for a second. And a second was exactly what Dean needed. He stabbed the Demon in the chest and pulled back.

People were stopping their cars. "Oh can't those amateurs just try to kill me in a back alley where it won't attract any attention?" Dean sighed.

He cleaned the knife on the dead officers jacket and got in the Impala again, driving off as fast as he could.

_So, my brother and friend are missing AND I'm going to be on the six o'clock news. Awesome_, Dean sighed. This day was just getting better and better.

When he passed a television store that had the news on, he waited at the side of the road, pretending to make a phone call, to see if he had indeed made the news.

He had. Of course he had. You can't just kill two Demons on the side of a very busy highway and hope to get away with it.

_'__Dangerous stabber in obnoxious car_', the screen said.

"With sketch and all," Dean shook his head and slammed the steering wheel. "Time to get the fuck out of here."

He would return just before midnight, on foot.

For now, Dean drove his car to the edge of town, in a parking lot where he was never going to be bothered. He managed to get some food and beer and eat and drank those last three hours away.

When it was finally 11:30pm, he armed himself lightly (only his Colt, Ruby's knife and a shotgun loaded with salt rounds) and walked to the cemetery.

Dean wanted to be there early. He didn't like surprises and he wanted to do some preparations.

Well, he liked surprises, he liked hey-Dean-how-about-a-free-striptease-surprises and hey-Dean-how-about-your-favorite-burger-surprises, but not the hey-Dean-here's-a-bullet-in-your-face-surprises.

That's why he was kneeling behind a giant tombstone at 11:40pm with a gun in his right and a shotgun in his left hand, wondering about 'JM'.

After only a couple minutes of waiting, a slender man in a suit that looked very expensive walked onto the cemetery. In the light of the streetlamps Dean could see he was light blond, and, well, Dean had to give it to him, he _was_ handsome.

But the Demon inside was probably ugly as fuck.

Once Dean saw that he had walked into his Devil's Trap, he slowly got up. "Gotcha you ugly black bitch," he smiled, pointing his shotgun at the Demon.

The man in suit frowned. "Ugly black bitch?" he said with a Scottish accent, "Isn't that a little racist?"

Dean pointed his gun to the ground, with the still wet Devil's Trap, hidden away by the darkness.

"Oh- you, drew something on the ground." The man smiled. "Got my shoes all dirty."

He walked out of the Devil's Trap, to Dean's utter surprise.

And he didn't like surprises.

"What the Hell are you?" He muttered.

"Human?" the man frowned. "Just, human. No Demons and Devils involved this time, mister Winchester."

He walked up to Dean, pushing his chest against the barrel of his weapon. "So, now it's my turn to shuffle the cards."

Dean swallowed.

"We got off on the wrong foot." The man smiled and offered his hand. "My name is Sebastian Moran."

Dean looked down at Moran's hand, but ignored it. "What do you want from me?"

Moran looked a little cross at Dean's subtle way of saying 'fuck you', and he smiled. "We have your brother. We have your friend. They're safe and sound, but you have to do something to get them back."

"I don't know who told you anything, but I got no money." Dean growled.

"My boss doesn't want money. He wants services." Moran said.

"Services? Well, tell your boss he can stick it up his ass, that I'm doing nothing and that I'll rip his intestines out if anything happens to Sam or Cas." Dean cocked the shotgun.

Something changed in Moran's posture. With two swift movements, he overpowered Dean, and suddenly they were standing in the same position again, only this time it was Moran holding the gun and Dean staring down a barrel.

"I'm only saying this once. My boss wants to speak to you. If you accept, you might get your friends back. If you refuse, they die. Got it?" Moran's voice was soft and low.

Dean swallowed and grabbed the barrel of his gun, pulling it to the ground. "What do I do?"

Moran let the gun go and handed him an envelope.

"Don't miss your flight."


	2. The King

**Chapter 2**

Take off was the worst. It was worse than flying itself, because during flight you could only hear the soft rumble of the engines and there were hot stewardesses to look at. Taking off was even worse than descending, because when they were descending, they were _supposed_ to go to the ground.

Take off was the worst, Dean decided when he saw the Ronald Reagan Washington airport disappear underneath the clouds.

And this would've been his _fourth_ take off if he had taken the entire flight plan this 'Sebastian' has so nicely purchased for him, but he had quickly calculated that, with delays and luggage processing, he'd be in DC faster with his Impala than going via Denver and Seattle.

Well it wasn't exactly _faster_ as in quicker, but it was more relaxed and he would be able to catch his flight to London just in time. Dean had enjoyed the drive for as far as he could with his brother and friend missing. Or maybe they were dead. Dean didn't want to think about it.

He had shrugged, skipped a song or two until he had found his favorite Led Zeppelin and figured he'd prefer twenty hours in a car over five in a plane.

So when the stewardess handed him a pair of headphones and a blanket, he tuned into a rock station and tried to relax.

But he couldn't.

He had to think about Sam, and Cas, what could've happened to them, what _could_ happen to them if he wasn't able to live up to 'J.M's' expectations.

Even the plane's rough rocking didn't bother him, as he worried himself to sleep.

"_…__Landing in Heathrow airport shortly, please fasten your seatbelts."_

Quickly, Dean fastened his seatbelt, trying to remain calm. He didn't want to look like a nervous child, breathing in and out slowly. They were supposed to go to the ground.

Maybe, after he got Sam and Cas back, they would go on a nice, long holiday. Or maybe take a cruise home instead of a plane.

Although, the ship would probably be haunted, because that would be universes way to say 'fuck the Winchesters'.

The plane made a rough landing and bumped on his wheels a couple of times. When the pilot announced he would taxi to the terminal, all those friggin' rednecks started clapping.

_Why clap?_ Dean always thought, the pilot's job was to land safely. He fucking studied for landing safely. Dean saved lives and all he got was the occasional peck on the cheek, but usually a couple of self-administered stitches.

_I could land a friggin' plane,_ Dean grumbled moody as he disembarked and went for the luggage.

Okay he probably couldn't land a plane without crashing it, but the pilot probably couldn't kill a vamp, or, you know, any other creature that would survive his bumpy landing.

Dean lifted his duffle bag from the band and walked to the exit. He wasn't going to look for 'JM', 'JM' had to come find him, he thought. He would look for Sam and Cas yes, but if he found them 'JM' and Moran could go fuck themselves. Or each other. Whatever floats their boat.

The bag wasn't heavy, he could carry it in one hand. It was kind of weird, that all his stuff, a couple of shirts, his other pair of shoes, Sammy's clothes and the laptop, fit in one bag. His entire life was one bag of clothes.

Well and his weapons of course, but he had to leave those in the Impala, except for his ivory plated Colt, which he had gotten a fake, international FBI license for.

Discretely, he loaded it and stuck it in his waistband. That felt better. Less, naked… he still missed the blessed blade in his sock and it sucked out loud that he had to leave the Demon knife behind, but it was safe, in a case locked with a Devils trap in his trunk locked with the key he had in his pocket.

Dean looked around. What now? Moran had not included a note with the tickets.

He shrugged and whistled a cab.

"Where to sir?" The taxi-driver asked.

"Any hotel in London." Dean grumbled. He hated London. He hated the accent. He hated the people. And most of all, he HATED the fact that he could not drive himself. "And I might sound American, but I _will _notice if you take a detour."

It was a forty minute drive to the Euston Square Hotel, who probably paid the taxi-driver to bring them people who said 'any hotel in London'. Dean checked in, left his stuff in his room and went to have dinner round the corner, at some shady lunchroom called 'Speedy's'. What the Hell right, the pie was good.

Dean returned to his room a couple of hours later, and he turned on the lights, off guard.

There was a man standing by the window that _literally_ scared the crap out of him. He pulled his colt.

"Who the fuck are you?" he barked. "Turn around!"

Grinning like the Devil himself, the man, wearing some fancy-ass suit, turned around. "Good evening Dean Winchester," he said.

"I asked you who you are!" Dean said. He cocked the gun.

"You are not the one who is supposed to ask the questions," the man smiled.

Dean frowned. The man's self-confidence was confusing him. _He _was the one holding the gun.

"But," the man shrugged, grinning, "To prove that I bear no, or little, ill-will, I will answer your question. My name is Jim Moriarty."

"JM?" Dean asked.

Jim smiled. "Yes! Well done! I got your broken little family. Don't fret, they're still alive and well, well, sort of… the tall one, the uhm- what did my associate call him? Moose? Well, he's got himself a broken nose."

"Crowley is in on this?" Dean growled, ignoring the fact that they broke Sam's nose. Sam's nose had been broken more times than he could count. "I am going to kill him."

Jim chuckled. "It was really funny, because I called him for a deal, and, well, Kings only deal with Kings right? And he just offered the information, as if he wanted rid of you."

"And what do you want of me?" Dean asked.

Jim casually lent back on the windowsill. "First, that you put your gun down. I don't negotiate with terrorists."

Dean huffed, but put his gun away anyway. "I'm the terrorist now all of a sudden? I'm sorry, where you the guy who kidnapped my brother and friend?"

Jim smiled. "I think we can do business fine. I don't care about your brother. I don't care about your Angel. I needed leverage to get you here. You're here now."

"But I'm back to the USA as soon as I got my family back." Dean grumbled.

"So cute, how you say family. They're the only ones you have left." Jim was playing with him, like a cat plays with a mouse before she bites it down. "I only need three things from you."

"I can do that." Dean shrugged. He was still pissed, but this wasn't too bad. Three things. It probably were three stupid things too.

"One," Jim said, "I need to die."

"I can most certainly do that." Dean's hand went back to his colt again.

"Two, I need to be able to trust you."

"That's all up to you buddy."

"And three, I need your skills as a marksman."

"Seriously?" Dean frowned. "You got me here for that? Why for Christ's sake?"

"You have a text message with an address, go there tonight at 10pm. Do as I say and I will explain afterwards." Jim winked. "Promise."

Dean sighed deeply through his nose. "And what about Sam and Cas?"

"We'll see about Sam and Cas." Jim walked past him to the door and left. "See you at ten, Dean-o."

Dean grumbled disgruntled. When Jim had gone, he waited for a couple of minutes before he checked his phone. Just to make a point.

**66 Dean Lane  
>10pm<strong>

Dean lane? Seriously? Was Jim just fucking around with him? He sat down on the bed and pulled a beer out of the fridge, but was startled by someone knocking on his door.

"Dean?"

Dean shot up. He would recognize that voice anywhere. He ran to the door and pulled it open.

Cas was there, in the clothes he was wearing during the hunt, still smeared in blood, dirty, stinky, bloody, but alive. Dean pulled him into a hug. "O my God I thought I had lost you guys. Where's Sammy?"

Cas looked guilty when Dean let him go. "Still with the men Dean. I'm sorry. I know you would've preferred him over me, but they came in and Sam pushed me forward when they asked which one of us wanted to go and…"

"Don't be an idiot Cas, we're family. We might not be blood, but we're family. I cannot choose between you two and Sam wouldn't have accepted to go back first. Go wash up and then get some sleep. I'll move us to a bigger room tomorrow."

Dean dug through his bag and threw Cas some fresh clothes.

Cas nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, to reappear twenty minutes later with wet hair, in sweatpants and an AC/DC t-shirt and a gash in his face.

Well, the gash had been there, it was just hidden by blood and dirt.

"Any possibility that you could stitch this up?" he said, faking a smile.

Dean went for his bag and helped Cas with the wound, just above his eyebrow.

"That is gonna be one ugly scar, Cas," Dean mumbled while disinfecting the needle. He kind of defied that by putting it in his mouth to unroll the thread, but he wasn't a nurse, was he? And Castiel wasn't made of sugar.

He sewed him up as quick as he could, because he needed to get going. It was 9:15pm and he didn't even know where Dean Lane was.

He dapped the wound with some anti-septic and got up. "Get some sleep Cas. I gotta do something."

Cas got up too. "I want to help." He said. There was a stern, sure look in his face.

Dean smiled, pushing him back on the bed. "No, I need to do this alone and you are no use to me in this condition. I don't want to endanger you, not when I just got you back."

Cas nodded and crawled under the blanket, too tired to put up a fight.

Dean turned off the lights as he walked out of the room and checked his belt for his colt before he left the building. He whistled a cab and showed the man the address.

"I might sound American, but I _will_ notice when you take a detour." He grumbled.

"I know, sir," the cabby smiled and looked at Dean through the rear view mirror. "I took you here from the airport."


	3. The Initiation

**Chapter 3**

At Dean Lane, Dean pulled some pounds out of his pocket, but the taxi driver shook his head: "Your ride has been paid for."

He opened the door and stared Dean out of the car.

"Bastard." He mumbled.

"Talking to me boy?" he heard a voice he knew.

Dean turned around with a sneer. "Moran."

Moran smiled. "Winchester." He said in the same tone

He fumbled in a bag and pulled a sniper's rifle out.

"Dude, what the Hell?" Dean said, taking the rifle.

"We don't ask questions. The boss asked for protection, we make sure he doesn't die." Moran walked inside and Dean followed him. "He's going to meet up with two other man. A small blond one and a taller one. We cover the blond man, and you make sure the tall one doesn't do any wild things."

"So when do I shoot him?" Dean asked as he set up his rifle on the balcony.

"Jim's going to come in from there, and those two blokes he's meeting up with will supposedly come from there," Moran pointed to a door. "If not, Matt is taking over your job and you join the rest of us in protecting the boss. Oh- and he said to only shoot when he says the word 'funky'."

"Funky?" Dean frowned. "Uhm. Okay. But what if…"

Moran pressed a finger to his ear. "Copy." He said.

"Positions. The show has begun."

A tall man opened the door leading to the hall. He looked around and to where they were sitting, probably realizing that it was strategically dark up the balcony.

Dean wanted to aim, putting his finger on the trigger, but Moran stopped him. "Wait until the boss says so."

Dean nodded and pushed himself up on his elbows again, looking at what was happening beneath him.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." The man waved around an USB-stick. "Oh, that's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this."

He turned around, looking for a response, when a door halfway down the room opened. The tall man looked over his shoulder and frowned.

Behind him was a short man. Presumably the blond man Moran was talking about. He was wearing a thick winter coat.

Dean silently laughed. It must've been like 95 degrees in here.

"Evening." The man said.

The tall man just kept staring in utter disbelief, slowly turning around, lowering the USB.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" The blond man said.

"John." The tall man, Sherlock, sounded baffled. "What the hell?"

"Bet you never saw this coming." John said. Dean couldn't see his face, but he sounded so flat, like he was reading something.

John pulled his jacket open, obviously revealing something Dean couldn't see. He did see the snipers on the other side taking their aim.

"What... would you like me…" John sighed. "To make him say next?"

Sherlock started walking forward, and Dean immediately tightened his grip on the gun.

"Patience, patience," Moran whispered.

"Gottle o' geer…" John said. gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer." His voice broke a little on the last phrase, like he was swallowing a big chunk of rock.

"Stop it." Sherlock said. His voice had turned soft, almost sad. The situation had turned against him.

"Nice touch this," John said, "the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." The man swallowed and cringed. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart." He looked down, probably to the laser point on his chest."

"Who are you?" Sherlock sounded disgusted.

Suddenly, Dean heard a door creak: "I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

Sherlock turned towards the new arrival, Jim. He strolled alongside the pool with his hands in his pockets.

"Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket," Jim said with a smile. "or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock pulled a gun from his trousers and aims it towards Jim. Dean looked towards Moran for conformation, but he was still shaking his head. _Not yet, not yet._

"Both." Sherlock said.

"Jim Moriarty." Jim stops walking and raised his hand in a wave. "Hi!"

Sherlock frowns, as if he had seen the man before, but couldn't remember where and when.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Jim tilted his head, continuing his path alongside the pool. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

He exchanged a look with Sherlock that Dean couldn't understand, and started smiling, cocky.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see," Jim had reached Sherlock now, close to the barrel of the gun that has no apparent effect on him. "A specialist, like you!"

Sherlock gasped in realization. "'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?' 'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'"

"Just so." Jim smiled proudly.

"Consulting criminal." Sherlock shook his head. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Jim grinned. "No-one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will."

"I did." Sherlock cocked the pistol.

"If there's any moment to aim and shoot it's now Moran!" Dean hissed.

"No, no," Moran shook his head. "Remember, the Boss knows what Sherlock will do. If he thinks he won't shoot him, then we make him think he's still safe."

"Why am I even here…" Dean mumbled, turning back to the game of wits beneath him.

"I've shown you what I can do." Jim's voice went to deadly serious. "I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

Dean saw that Sherlock was getting uncomfortable and unsteady.

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Jim smiled, shrugging. "Although I have loved this, this little game of ours." He switched to a London accent for a moment. "Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died." Sherlock said silently.

"That's what people DO!" Jim screamed the last word furiously, his whole personality changing from the calm man Dean thought he was to a downright psychopath.

"I will stop you." Sherlock said with disgust.

Jim shook his head, stern. "No you won't."

"You all right?" Sherlock turned his head to John.

John looked to the tiles on the floor.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy." Jim tapped him on the shoulder, "Go ahead."

John looked up at Sherlock and nodded.

"He's refusing his orders," Dean whispered to Moran. "That man's got spirit."

"War veteran. Afghanistan." Moran whispered back.

"Take it." Sherlock offered the memory stick to Jim.

"Huh?" Jim grinned. "Oh! That!"

"What's on there?" Dean asked, but Jim answered that question for him.

"The missile plans!" Jim kissed the stick and rolled it through his fingers.

"Boring!" he suddenly sing-songs. He shrugs. "I could have got them anywhere."

He throws the stick in the pool, and suddenly John rushes forward, grabbing Jim around the neck. Sherlock backed up in surprise, tightening his grip on the gun.

"Sherlock, run!" John gasped.

"Good!" Jim laughs out loud. "Very good!"

Sherlock didn't move, stiffened.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty," John breathed into Jim's ear. "Then we both go up."

"Isn't he sweet?" Jim smiled to Sherlock. "I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets."

Suddenly, Dean noticed someone was elbowing him. "Now moron!" Moran hissed.

Dean had been watching the spectacle so closely, that he had forgotten why he was there. He clicked the safety off and aimed at Sherlock's forehead.

"They're so touchingly loyal." Jim grins, and then he saw the laser point. "But, oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock looks frightened, as if he can feel the laser point burning on his skin.

"Gotcha!" Jim chuckled and John immediately releases him.

Jim pulled on his suit to straighten it: "Westwood!"

He started walking toward the barrel of the gun again. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?"

Oh, let me guess:" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I get killed."

"Kill you?" Jim frowned. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you."

He looked at Sherlock briefly, with such disdain that Dean's heart stopped.

And Jim's voice was ever scarier. "I'll burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock doesn't seem to be effected by Jim's scariness "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true." Jim smiled and shrugged. "Well, I'd better be off."

He nonchalantly strolled back to the exit, turning around, he said: "Well, so nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock raised his gun. "What if I was to shoot you now, right here?"

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Jim said, first with a straight face, but then, probably mimicking surprise, he opened his mouth and eyes wide. "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really I would." He shrugged, screwing up his nose. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

Slowly, he turned back around. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

He shoots one last look at Sherlock, but then disappeared though the same door as John had entered through.

"Catch, you, later." Sherlock said, following Jim with his gun.

"No you won't!" Jim shouted back, high pitched.

The door slams shut and Sherlock drops the gun, running towards John and grabs his shoulders, shaking him roughly.

"All right?" He says, starting to unfasten the vest. "Are you all right?"

John moaned, head bobbing "Yeah-yeah, I'm fine."

Sherlock tried to shrug the vest off. But John didn't cooperate.

"I'm fine." John mumbled again.

Sherlock, who was also out of breath, continues at tugging at the jacket.

"Sherlock." John mumbled. "S-Sherlock!"

Sherlock finally manages to pull the jacket off and skims it away as far along the pool tiles as he can.

"Jesus." John breathed.

Dean chuckled softly. "This is the gayest thing that has ever happened in front of my eyes."

Moran huffed next to him. "Yeah. It tends to happen with these two."

"Who are they?" Dean asked.

"A detective and a war veteran. But this is not any detective. That man is mental. You walk up to him and he knows your life story."

"Bullshit." Dean huffed.

"No, truly, you should meet him once, if you ever get the chance." Moran said.

"What do we do now?" Dean asked, he wanted to get up, but Moran pushed him back down.

"We wait. The boss is going to come back." Moran smiled a little smile. "It's all a play. Plus, we might even…"

Suddenly, Moran pushed his hand to his ear again. "Yessir, copy sir." Then he taps a button on his earpiece. "Lasers aimed at John, copy?"

And then at Dean. "We get Sherlock."

Dean nodded and pushed his eye to the lens, finger hovering near the trigger.

"Oh…" John breathed petrified.

A door opened, creaking, and Jim walked back in: "Sorry, boys! I'm sooo changeable!"

Dean couldn't help but smile. This man was fantastic. Evil, but Dean was used to that.

"It is a weakness with me but," Jim spread his arms and smiled. "To be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

He lowered his hands and puts them into his pockets: "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock and John exchange looks.

"Shit," Dean whispers. "Moran, he's going to shoot the bomb. We're going up. Do I shoot?"

"Not without the bosses permission." Moran shook his head silently.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock's aim goes up to Jim, and then lowers to the bomb jacket.

And silence fell.


	4. The Desertion

**I am soooo sorry ! I totally forgot about this story... It's all finished, I just casually forgot to upload. It's got two more chapters left, and this is a short one, but enjoy and review!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

"Ah- ah- ah- ah- Staying alive! Staying alive! Ah- ah- ah- ah- ah Staying aliihiiive!"

Jim bowed his head in embarrassment.

"Is that?" Dean asked.

"His phone." Moran sighed.

"Do you mind if I get that?" Jim asked politely.

"No, no, please." Sherlock gestured with his gun. "You've got the rest of your life."

Jim took his phone from his pocket and answered it: "Hello?- Yes, of course it is. What do you want?"

He mouthed 'sorry' at Sherlock and turned around. Suddenly, face full of fury, he whirled back on his heels. "SAY THAT AGAIN!- Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will _skin_ you.- Wait."

He lowered his phone, and walked forward to Sherlock. "Sorry." He frowns. "Wrong day to die."

"Oh." Sherlock said casually. "Did you get a better offer?"

Jim looked at his phone and slowly started to walk away from Sherlock. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."

He brings the phone back to his ear: "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

...

"What the Hell." Dean was sitting in a chair at a desk. At least they had beer.

"I needed you to know, Dean. This is my little project." Jim himself drank tea. Beer is above the English.

"Your little project?" Dean asked. "Please, and you couldn't hire another bastard? What exactly is the point of this?"

"There is a certain reason, Dean." Jim stirred his tea. "I cannot explain. I need to make a deal."

A cold, icy feeling spread through his body. "You want to do _what_?"

"I heard you had connections in Hell." Jim lent forward in his chair. "I'm not just going to sell my soul, that's boring. I want the entire package. I want the Devil himself."

"The Devil is gone," Dean said, and he got up. "Where's Sammy? I'm gonna go. This is ridiculous."

"Give me the Devil and I'll give you your brother." Jim said, smiling.

Dean surged forward and bashed his fists on the table. "Why?!" he yelled. "Tell me what the Hell is going on."

Something in Jim snapped. He slammed his tea very unbritish-like on the table and jumped to his feet, their faces only a couple of inches apart.

"Because I need to _break_ Sherlock. I need to rip his heart out. But I want to watch him fall apart." Jim breathed in deeply. "I need to cheat death."

Dean huffed. "Well, it sounds harder than it is."

"Yes, and you did it quite some times. Tell me how." Jim sat back down again and lent forward on his elbows.

Dean started to count. "Well, there was this time when I shot my doppelganger, so I guess that doesn't really count. Then there's that one time I got a heart attack and accidentally participated in a ritual and then I didn't die anymore, then there was the car crash that put me in a coma, but my father sold his soul for me, then there is that one time where Sam got stuck in a mystery spot where I died every day, I got shot, run over, choked on a sausage, slipped in the shower, crushed by a desk. There was also that one time I got mauled by Hellhounds, I got shot again, and uhm, well, that was it."

Jim frowned. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." Dean smiled. "I cheated Death more times than you can imagine. Plus, I had pizza with him. He's a nice guy."

Jim shook his head. "You can go back to America. With your brother and your boyfriend,"

Dean made a noise, but Jim ignored him.

"But when the Fall comes, I will send you a message, and you will come to London and you will help me."

"And why would I do that?" Dean lent forward too.

"Because I have shown you what I can do Dean," he said in a song-song voice. "And me taking little Sammy and human Cas was just an act. So make sure you come over when I call."

Dean slammed his beer onto the table and swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"You are dismissed, mister Winchester."

Dean got up so violently his chair tipped over. "Where's Sammy?"

"Hotel room."

Back at the hotel, which was probably the crappiest hotel in London, Dean almost kicked the door in to find his brother and his friend, his family, soundly asleep. Cas on the queen and Sammy on the king, legs sprawled all over.

Dean went to his brother and shook his shoulder. "Sammy, Sammy wake up,"

Sam rolled over.

"Hey, pssst, Sammy, do you wanna build a snowmaaan?" Dean whispered.

Sam's eyes went open immediately. "Dean?"

Dean laughed softly. "Good morning princess."

Sam checked his watch. "Dude, it's like 5 am."

"I'm happy to see you too. Scoot over, the ex-angel stole my bed." Dean pushed Sam away and kicked his shoes off.

"The ex-angel can hear you." Cas murmured from the king.

"G'night Cas."

"Good night."

Dean dozed off, feeling glad that they were complete again.

The next morning he explained everything to Sam and Cas and took care of their wounds.

"We woke up in a dark room," Sam said when it was his turn to explain. "They had drugged us and while yours wore off, they just kept drugging us when we dared to wake up. When we finally did we were locked up, but they left a window open. It was small, but just big enough for Cas' hand to squeeze through and we tried to escape, but they caught us, beat us to a pulp and then threw us back in. when I woke up, Cas was gone and less than four hours later they delivered me here."

"It's been a rollercoaster." Dean frowned.

"Yes, but it doesn't make sense." Sam shook his head and tied a knot in the stitch in his arm. He poured some whiskey over it and took a swig from the bottle. "Why go to these ends? He could just have googled 'demon deals' or go to the Ghostfacers website."

Dean shrugged. "You should've seen that man, he is mental. I say we get our asses back to the USA asap. I miss my baby."


	5. The End

**I am truly sorry you had to wait for so loonnnggg- but here is the last chapter to my short story, have fun and leave a review!**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

It was a year and a half later when Dean got the text he feared the most.

_It is Fall._

There was no debt to be paid, no leverage, but Dean knew he had no choice. He knew he had to go to London and help Moriarty, because he had seen what the psychopath was capable of.

"I gotta go." He said to Sam, who was researching something.

"What? Where?" Sam got up and went to the kitchen.

"Uhm- England!" Dean smiled and caught the beer Sam threw him.

"We're in the middle of a case, Dean!" Sam frowned.

Dean nodded. "I know, I know, but Mr. Moriarty snuck into our motel room a year ago and just took you and Cas."

"Yeah, but we've got the bunker now," Sam said. "And Cas got his grace back. They won't take us again."

"I know Sammy, but he made some threats and I've got the feeling that he's a person who keeps his word." Dean shook his head. "You keep going with the case, I'll be back ASAP."

"I'm coming with you," Sam said, slamming his laptop shut.

"No," Dean said stern, "This is something I gotta do on my own."

"No it's not, Jim didn't say anything about bringing friends." Sam looked at his brother, "How did you plan to go to London?"

"Cas," Dean shrugged. "So I do hope he's got his ears on."

He folded his hands: "Ahem- pray the Lord my soul to keep, Cas, I need a lift. Can you come over for a-"

There was a soft flapping and when Dean turned around, Castiel was standing there.

"What's wrong, Dean?" he asked.

"He's back." Dean breathed. "And I need to go to London, now."

"Okay," Cas said, and he stepped forward, but Dean stopped him.

"Wait," he said. "You must take me to Moriarty, and then leave immediately. I have to deal with this on my own."

Cas looked wronged. "But…"

"It's no use, Cas," Sam said, a little tired.

"Fine." Cas said.

"Promise?" Dean asked.

"Promise." Cas nodded as he took Deans hand.

Dean closed his eyes, breathed in and when he opened his eyes, he was in a study. Cas looked at him intensely, let go of his hand and teleported back to the bunker, probably.

"Dean! I'm glad you're here!" Jim didn't seem slightly disturbed by the fact that he just teleported into his study.

"Well, glad to see you too, Jimmy." Dean said sarcastically.

"It's time. The big finale." Jim smiled.

"I still don't understand why you need me so badly." Dean sat down and helped himself to some whiskey.

Jim smiled at his bold move and reached for a box in his drawer. He set it down in between them.

Dean frowned and opened the box. There was a picture of Jim in it, some dirt, bones. One and one is two and Dean wasn't an idiot.

Well, at least not on this area.

"Graveyard dirt?" he asked, pointing at the dirt.

Jim nodded proudly.

"Black cat's bones?"

"You are good!" Jim smiled. "The only thing I miss is…"

"The incantation." Dean got up. "Listen Jim, this is a stupid idea."

Dean realized he had forgotten why he had rushed over here, why the text message had filled him with dread and fear.

Jim Moriarty was a wolf disguised as a sheep. Or better, a psychopath disguised as a businessman.

"You will help me." Jim got up. His voice was low and he smiled like a maniac. "I have men shadowing your brother and with one call I can have him murdered or tortured. I can have him skinned, I can have his throat slid. I can have him hanged, or burned, or drowned,"

Jim went on for a while, staring him down.

Dean took a deep gulp of his whiskey. "I get it." He mumbled.

"I'm sorry?" Jim asked.

"I get it." Dean said, a little louder. "Well, if you want to go to Hell that badly, let's go then."

"Can't we do it here?" Jim asked.

Dean laughed. "No. We need to go to a crossroads."

"A… crossroads?"

...

Twenty minutes later, they were standing in front of Nelson's Column, in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

"I can't believe you just did this. I thought we would go somewhere far off, in the countryside." Dean stared at the construction workers that were packing into their truck and leaving. In front of him there were a few tiles removed from the square and they had dug a neat little hole.

"What, oh no Dean Winchester," Jim smiled. "I don't do countryside."

"What if the police…"

Jim huffed. "I own the police."

He motioned for one of his men to put the box in the hole and cover it up. When the sand was back in place, he send them away.

Dean handed him a slip of paper. "Read this up. Don't make the deal without my say so."

Jim smiled wickedly, as if he was considering to listen to Dean. "Daemon, esto subiecto voluntati meae."

No one in the square even seemed to notice the sudden appearance of a slender woman in a black dress.

"Good afternoon," She said, smiling.

"Shut up and listen, you red eyed bitch." Dean said, violently.

"I don't do business with Winchesters," the Crossroads Demon said.

"You don't have to." Jim said, walking forward. "I just need one small thing."

"Your wish is my demand."

"I need to die, and then I need to come back." Jim stepped closer to the Demon.

_Is he… flirting?_ Dean shook his head disappointed.

"That can be arranged. You just, sign the contract and you get ten years to enjoy your… life." The Demon bit at his lips.

"Wait," Jim said, pulling his head back. "Ten years. Little, uhm, short? Can't we make a deal about that too? I believe your boss already knows about it."

The Crossroads Demon huffed and disappeared.

"Now you've scared it." Dean said sarcastically.

"No I haven't," Jim responded, with a weird smile on his face.

And then she was back, with an envelope in her hand. She handed it to Jim and he opened it, reading the contents.

"Normally, Kings only deal with Kings, but in this case I'll make an exception." He popped the letter back in the envelope and stepped forward to kiss the Demon.

He kissed her cold and quick, "Thank you very much. Run back now."

"What the Hell is in that letter?" Dean asked.

"I have met up with the King of Hell earlier. This is a very special contract, in which I and the Crossroads King work together to raise the amount of deals in London."

"What?" Dean growled. "I can't believe you."

Jim took a bow and started towards the car.

"There is a very special place in Hell for you!" Dean called after him.

"Yes!" Jim got in his car. "The throne."

The doors slammed, the engine started brawling and he disappeared in to the busy London traffic.

"Well and what the Hell am I supposed to do now?" Dean growled.

"You go with me." He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around.

It was Moran, he was carrying a duffle bag. Very un-English.

"We're going to go for a little walk." He smiled.

They headed south, towards, well, Dean didn't know where. He didn't know London.

Moran was silent for most of the walk, which took about half an hour. He occasionally pointed at buildings and named them, but Dean didn't care.

Moran took Dean to a staircase, with a good view on the parking lot of St. Bart's hospital.

"There's gonna be a blond man and a brunet. If the brunet doesn't jump off the building, you shoot the blond. No questions asked, do as you're told and you're free to go." Moran handed him the duffle bag he had been carrying. "Everything you need is in there. AWN Rifle, couple rounds, pod, visor. After it's over, you can leave if you like. I heard you have a little Angel on your shoulder who also plays your private jet."

Dean set up his pod. "I don't suppose you brought any booze."

"I've got to go," Moran said, lighting a cigarette. "Check your bag."

Moran walked back down the stairs, whistling.

When Dean had finished up prepping for the big show he reached into the bag and felt something familiar brush under his fingertips.

"Haha! Jimmy knows how to take care of his boys!" He pulled the bottle of Jack out of the bag, screwed the cap off and took a swig. "Ah! The good stuff."

He kept watch, occasionally drinking from the bottle of whiskey, until a cab pulled up and a blond man got out.

"Well I'll be damned."

It was the man from the pool. He took his phone out of his pocket and looked up to the roof of the hospital, shocked.

Dean followed his gaze and saw the brunet on the rooftop.

Surprising.

_What were their names again? The blonds was John, easy. The brunet's though…_

"SHERLOCK!"

_Oh yeah…_

John started fast walking to where Sherlock was going to fall and Dean watched the puppet-show.

Sherlock landed, safely on a giant air mattress. When he rolled off, it was deflated and people took it away, Sherlock running along. Two people on a bench dropped a body similar to Sherlock, and to stun John he was hit by a biker.

"What the crap," Dean swore. What was he gonna do now? Kill 'em both?

Once John had gotten up, Sherlock was taking his place on the pavement, face bloodied. Dean steadied his rifle and aimed at the fake gash in Sherlock's face, he placed his finger on the trigger.

And there was eye contact. Sherlock looked at him, eyes big. Slowly, he shook his head.

_We're not the enemy,_ he mouthed. In a flash, Dean knew that he knew. About him, Sammy, everything.

It was a stupid decision, but it also was the most logical.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Jim on the rooftop, steadying himself from shooting himself in the head, his suit covered in blood.

If Jim leant over the edge, he'd see it all, the circus, Sherlock and he would kill them both.

Instinctively, Dean knew that Sherlock was important. Why else would Jim want him dead?

He swung his rifle up, aimed and pulled the trigger.

Jim staggered back, looked at the blooming wound in his chest, then at Dean and fell, with an awful look of surprise on his face.

"Sorry bro." Dean mumbled.

His phone rang.

"Hey."

It was Moran.

"_Did it happen?_"

Dean cleared his throat. "He jumped. Saw it with my own eyes."

"_Very good. You're free to go._" Moran said and he hung up immediately.

Dean shook his head, not able to comprehend. He was gonna get outta here ASAP and he was never gonna see this fucking place again. Ever.

_Cas, ready to pick me up?_ He prayed.

There was a short silence and Dean waited for the familiar sound of Cas' wings, and a deep: "Hello Dean."

"Hey Cas." Dean smiled, turning around quickly.

"Are you ready to go? Have you got everything?" Castiel grabbed his hand and wanted to teleport.

"Hold on a sec." Dean said. He ducked and grabbed the bottle of Jack. "Might need this one."

He took a swig, ignoring Cas' disapproving glare.

"Let's get back. Didn't we have a fang on our hands?"


End file.
